


When the Levee Breaks

by Wonderdyke



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Biting, Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, Consensual Kink, Drug Withdrawal, F/M, Feels, Femdom, Flogging, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Negotiation, Kink Shaming, Masks, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, No Aftercare, Past Drug Use, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Polyandry, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Safewords, Spanking, Threesome - F/M/M, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, femdom!Inquisitor, kink as absolution, sub!cullen, switch!Blackwall - Freeform, switch!Thom Rainier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-03-04 10:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13362930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wonderdyke/pseuds/Wonderdyke
Summary: In which Cullen and Blackwall fall for the same woman, twice.  Bond over their darker desires.  And get a happily ever after.~The first whisper of the leather across his skin was pure bliss, the falls making pain flare to life wherever they touched.  She struck him over and over giving him an easy rhythm to sink into, working over his backside until it was throbbing and pulsing and just this side of too much.  She changed instruments several times, though what they were he couldn’t guess; he only knew they felt different as they burned new paths across his flesh until he was floating in a sea of pain/pleasure.Maker, she was good at this.He didn’t even realise she’d stopped, he was so lost in the pulses of pain, like being buffeted by the tide.  Her fingernails drew long furrows down his back, drawing him back to himself with a moan.





	1. Temptation's Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Questions, comments, concerns? Want to flame me or beg for more chapters? You can contact me via tumblr: wonderdyke.tumblr.com

Cullen was on fire, every nerve, every muscle burning from within with his need for lyrium.  He felt sick, the illness growing with each minute; wave after wave of painful nausea cramping his empty stomach. 

How?  How had his life come to this?  

He’d been winning against his addiction, a war of attrition certainly but a winnable one.  He'd fallen in love with an incredible woman.  He’d kissed her, she’d kissed him back.  It was all over.

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

The words were all the explanation Evelyn would ever give him.  He wouldn’t go begging for the scraps of her affection like a lovesick teenager.  Watching Blackwall try to win the affections that slipped through his grasp was a searing pain in its own right.  No doubt the reason he could no longer focus.

His thoughts drifted to, of all people, The Iron Bull.  He’d heard rumours of the man’s particular desires and while Cullen didn’t much care for the touch of men he wondered if Bull might give him the pain he craved.  Except Bull was with Dorian and had not shared his bed with another since.  No, Cullen pushed the thought aside, he liked them both and would not degrade their relationship by even asking.

S,till the thought rattled around in his head, knowing, craving the pain that would free him from the leash of his addiction - at least for a moment.

He went to walk the barracks. At a minimum, he could move around with the tingling ache beneath his skin, and appear as if he were working.  He strolled the tower, nodding to men and women as he passed more focused on putting one foot in front of the other as the chilly night air stole what little heat there was in his bones.

“...the masked woman,” a soldier said from around the corner, “she’s wild.  Got all the these things on her walls, whips and shite.  Rumor is she doesn’t even fuck.  What’s the point of that?”

Cullen froze, listening as the rough Ferelden voice spoke.

“I suspect,” a heavy Orlesian accent replied, “that there are men and women who enjoy such things.”

The first soldier chuckled, “Guess it takes all kinds, me personally I like a good uncomplicated rogering.”

Of, course he’d heard of The Masked Woman before, a prostitute of particular skill that worked Skyhold’s brothel nearly since the beginning, although he’d always believed the tales of her rather exaggerated.  He wondered if Bull knew about her, it seemed like he would.

That thought had carried him all the way to the Herald’s Rest.  The qunari was in his usual spot but mercifully alone, the Chargers having been dispatched to Haven to clear the area and look for survivors that had not made it back.  Cullen girded his courage as he ordered a pint before wandering close and taking a free chair near the man.

If Bull was surprised by the Commander’s sudden appearance he didn’t say.  They chatted for awhile about things relating to the soldier’s and Bull’s own men before that one clever eye narrowed, looking at the man next to him.

“Gotta say, Cullen, you look like shit.”

“It will pass,” he wasn’t prepared to announce his withdrawal to the Inquisition at large.

“So,” the big man said, stretching, “what brings you here?”

“I was considering,” Cullen mumbled, giving a meaningful look at the door that lead from the Rest into the main room of the brothel.

Bull burst into laughter, the sound drawing embarrassment from within him.  “Good on you!” he barked, chuffing the smaller man on the shoulder.  “So, need advice?”

“Actually,” Cullen cleared his throat, “I was hoping you might apprise me of- of their wares.”

“Koslun’s hairy ass, Commander, if you turn any redder you might pop." 

The qunari leaned close, voice dropping conspiratorially. 

"So want help choosing a lady?”  He ventured before adding, “Or a man?”

“A lady,” Cullen stammered, chugging down the remained of his ale.  “Maker’s breath.”

Bull signaled one of the women and she brought him another, Cullen tipped the full glass at the qunari before swallowing down a good portion.

“So, what are you interested in?” he asked, “I mean, I could guess but it is always easier if you just say.”

“I was wondering about-” he cleared his throat again when the cursed thing closed up on him. “Maker... the Masked Lady.” he hissed, unable to stop from looking around to see if anyone was listening.  “How I might... procure her services.”

Bull, it seemed, had taken pity on him and chosen not to tease him.  “See the man in the corner?  With the ledger?”

Cullen did, an old assuming man with half moon spectacles perched on his nose.

“He does all the booking for specialties at the Golden Chalice.  If you’re just looking for a tumble you go through those doors and find someone available.  But for her, you talk to him, see if she’s free for the night, or however long you're looking for, and pay.”

Cullen nodded, nervousness staying him from immediate action.

“Look,” Bull said, “not that it’s any of my business, but make sure you know what you’re getting into.  She will work you over.  Not that I've used her - but I hear things.”

He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips unbidden.  “That’s what I need.”

“If you’re sure than,” Bull stood, crossing the room to the steward.  Cullen felt his stomach tighten as he watched the qunari negotiate before returning, odd that he hadn’t seen any coin exchanged.  “She’s free if you want her.  I booked you a standard, figured you might not want anything too exotic.”  He wondered what the qunari meant by _that_.  “This one’s on me.”

“Th-thank you.” he said, not waiting lest his courage - liquid and otherwise - fail him.

“Coward,” Cullen muttered to himself before finding the strength to push open the scarred door.  

He hadn’t spent much time in Skyhold’s brothel before, oh once - what seemed like ages ago - he’d approved the space for use near the barracks.  What had once been empty stone rooms behind the tavern was bustling with women and men.  A back door from the Herald’s Rest spilled directly into the area, close enough for patrons to get their drinks from Cabot without interrupting the raucous festivities.

He slipped unseen into the side hallway, following the directions Bull had given him, before the soldiers inside could see their Commander.  Not that he minded them knowing… well, he did mind, he didn’t like his personal life to be fodder for soldiers’ gossip.  Even more, he didn’t want the chorus of ‘sir’s to stay him.  

He needed it, he would go through with it.

Moreover, Cullen was interested to see if the gossip about the Masked Lady matched her reality.  That she was a unique woman was clear, but some things were beyond what he would expect of soldier’s rumors.  Even more interesting she did not bed her clients.  Whatever pleasure they found in her tender mercies were tended to by others.  Though there were always rumors among the men of her bedding the occasional visitor; Cullen was unsure whether that was truth or the typical barrack’s braggadocio.

Arriving at the door at the end of the hall he knocked three times, hard firm raps on the wood.

“Enter,” called a voice within.

He stepped inside.  The room was warm, filled with candles and thick tapestries.  Against one wall was a rack, implements of leather and wood hanging from the pegs as well as a table beneath but Cullen could see little more than a gleam of metal.  The woman herself stood near the window clothed from head to toe in a long hooded dark velvet cloak.  Truthfully, it seemed more performative than functional in the warm interior but knowing that did not stay the rapid beating in his chest.

“There’s a mask and hood on the chair,” the woman spoke, facing the window which reflected a warped silver mask, “wear it if you wish.  The rest of your clothes come off.”

He shivered at her voice, a light Orlesian accent which brooked no argument as if she expected to be obeyed.  Well of course she did, what else would be the point?  

He stripped off his clothes with a soldier’s efficiency, folding them into the chair before putting on both the mask - silver like her’s - and the hood to cover his hair.  Anyone who’d been at Skyhold for more than a moment could recognise him by his hair alone.

“I’m ready,” he said, trying to sound casual and failing.  He stepped away from the door, pausing in the center of the room; his hands clasped behind his back to keep him from fidgeting.

She turned, dropping the velvet cloak she’d worn, letting it pool at her feet.  She was dressed from head to toe, the simple garment of blood red bisected with a black corset and little else in the way of adornment.  She wore the mask, of course, and a fabric the same colour as her dress wrapped around her hair in the Orlesian style.  Elbow length black gloves covered all of her arms except the tips of her fingers leaving her nails, long and sharp looking, free for whatever purpose.

Even entirely covered, the prowl of her steps as she crossed the room had him needing, aching.  She stopped a breath away from him, coming only to his collarbone.

“Kneel,” she commanded, green eyes dancing.

He did, slowly, careful not to brush her.

She did a slow appraisal of him, looking him over as one might a prised druffalo, fingers trailing along his skin.  Unbidden, his eyes closed at the touch, fire curling low in his belly.

He hadn’t expected, hadn’t been prepared for the arousal.  He’d only ever done such power games with men.  It had been easy enough to pull him out of his head but he had never felt this curling maddening desire run through him.  What before had been simple had a new flavour that ached in his gut and made him as hard as he could remember since- since-

No, he would not think her name and defile her with his desires.  Perhaps she had been right to end it, he would never want her to see this part of him.

He felt a breeze and the brush of cloth near his knees.  Looking down he saw a thick plush pillow.

“Put that beneath you.  The only pain you’ll feel here will be intentional.”

He obeyed as she moved to a fainting couch, reclining as she watched him.  He was grateful for the mask and hood as he felt the burn of his cheeks and ears.  He wanted to rub the back of his neck but refrained.

He realised that he’d been silent for a long time with her just watching him.

“Maker’s breath,” he muttered softly.

“You know what I do here?’ she asked, finally.

He nodded.

“Have you done such things before?”

“I have,” he croaked.

“What are your expectations? Limits?”

“I need,” he cleared his throat when it seized up on him, “pain it- it helps me focus.  I do not know if you’re a mage but do not bind me with magic… other than that I am willing - more than willing-”

She held up her hand and he was happy to stop, the words dying in his throat.  “There will be no touching, no sex.  Just this.”  She indicated his kneeling form and the implements he knew hung behind him.  The masked woman rose from the reclining couch in a fluid motion, crossing the room to her table.  He heard her fingers brush across the instruments, his ears straining for every sound.  She had done nothing and yet he felt weak as a newborn, body vibrating with anticipation.

He could hear the swish of her skirts as she turned back towards him.  “I’m going to start slowly,” she spoke, her voice like a caress on his skin, “if it is too much or you need a break you will say ‘arrêtez’.”

He nodded then added, “yes, ma’am.”  He smiled at her breathy gasp of pleasure.

“Put your hands on your head,”

He did as he was bade.

The first whisper of the leather across his skin was pure bliss, the falls making pain flare to life wherever they touched.  She struck him over and over giving him an easy rhythm to sink into, working over his back and arse until it was throbbing and pulsing and just one side of too much.  She changed instruments several times, though what they were he couldn’t guess; he only knew they felt different as they burned new paths across his flesh until he was floating in a sea of pain/pleasure.

Maker, she was good.

He didn’t even realise she’d stopped he was so lost in the pulses of pain, like being buffeted by the tide.  Her fingernails drew long furrows down his back, drawing him back to himself with a moan.

“Void,” she breathed, her accent sounding subtly different, “you’re doing so well.  So beautiful like this.”

He blushed beneath the mask.  It had never occurred to him that she might actually enjoy this, it was a heady realisation.  He felt her kneel behind him between his open legs, her teeth scoring a trail along his shoulders.  He remembered distantly that she had said no touching but he revelled in the sharp feel of her teeth, the bite of her nails into his flesh and did not remind her or object.  

Cullen couldn’t remember a time he’d ever been that hard, cock firm and straining  against his belly.  One of her hands wrapped around his waist, plucking at his nipples before dragging furrows down his front.  He could not help the groan of pleasure as he rocked back into her embrace.

“Touch yourself,” she whispered in his ear, the command sending lightning down his spine to his cock which bobbed in agreement, “I want to see you pleasure yourself.”

“I-I’ve never in front of… I can’t-” he began to object, the muscles in his spine stiffening.

“Shh,” she soothed, deft hands running over the marks she’d just made, “you don’t have to do anything you do not want to do.”  Her lips nipped at his earlobe, the gesture so tender compared to the roughness of earlier.  

Cullen wanted to, desperately, her sudden gentleness making him willing where pushing would have made him balk.  He dropped his arms from where they’d remained above his head, circling his cock with a trembling hand he dared to speak, “how would you like me to do it?”

“Slowly,” she commanded, her nails blazing more marks down his sides, “savor this.  Show me how long you can keep yourself on the edge.”

He stroked himself languorously as she stood back up, moving away from him.  He cried out when she struck him again, hips stuttering into his fist.

“Continue,” she demanded, even as the leather sung across his flesh once more.

He spit into his hand, using it to soften the slide of his palm as he gathered the precum leaking from the head of his cock.  She continued her tender mercies, striking him over and over the sound punctuated with his grunts until he was straining toward his release.  He sped his hand trying to race toward his finish.

“Stop.” Her voice cut through the fog of pleasure in his mind.  His hand stilled.

Cullen opened his eyes to find her kneeling in front of him, the silver of her domino swimming in his vision through the eyeholes.  He realised he was crying, thank the Maker such foolishness was hidden by the metal.  She leaned toward him, her hands framing his hips as she pressed a kiss to the mouth of his the mask her breath gusting against his lips through the hole.

“So good,” she murmured, her voice drifting to his ears, “so obedient.  Maker,” she cried, fingernails digging into the flesh of his shoulders as she trembled.  He could smell her arousal.

“May I-” he croaked, trying to find his voice, “may I pleasure you, my lady?”  He instantly regretted asking, he knew that wasn’t part of the bargain.

“Yes,” she hissed, guiding his hand from his own member to the folds of her sex.  She was wet - beyond wet - the slick of her arousal coating her thighs and soaking her smalls.  He curled his fingers against her nub, stroking her gently his other arm circling her waist.  He felt unbelievably powerful in her arms as if she’d unmade him and rebuilt him into something stronger than he was before, it reminded him distantly of his first taste of lyrium.

He buried his head in her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her as she rocked against him.  Cullen felt the prickle of her nails at his throat as she pressed against his airway, not enough to cut off the flow of his breaths but enough to remind him who was in control even as she made greedy noises in her throat.  

“Don’t stop,” she demanded as her hand circled his cock, bare after discarding one of her gloves.  He hissed at the pain that flared in his balls at the tug of her cool skin, discomfort bourne of remaining of the edge of release for too long.  “So good,” she praised, “so good for me.”

She dropped the hand from his neck, her arm flinging over his shoulder as she clung to him, the silk of the remaining glove clinging to his sweat dampened skin.  He wished he hadn’t worn the hood, wanting suddenly the feel of her fingers tugging at his curls.

“Put your fingers inside me,” she bade and he did as she wanted, shifting so he could twist his wrist and bury two fingers deep within.  The heat of her channel flexed around the intrusion, grasping tightly against him and filling his mind with the ghostly sensation of what it might be like to be buried inside her.

“My Queen,” he gasped against her neck shocked at his use of the honorific but not displeased when she gave a shivering moan of pleasure, “I am close.”

“Do not release, you do not have my permission.”

He grunted, biting his lower lip and trying to hold back even as her hand continued to stroke his length neither faster nor slower but inexorable as the sunrise.  He focused instead on her pleasure, shutting out all but the rock of her hips and the slick slide of his fingers within her.  He used all his Templar training to seal away the demands of his own body, reveling in each cry of pleasure he ripped from her lips.  He cursed the mask as his desire to kiss those sounds from her lips surged in him.

“There, there!” she gasped, shuddering against his as the tide of her pleasure flowed over him.  “Now,” she ordered giving him permission to seek his orgasm at last.

His body reacted before his mind, balls drawing achingly tight as he spent himself hard and fast, splashing the material of her dress and covering her hand.  He broke apart under her ministrations, unmade and weak.  They were both shuddering, holding each other up as their heartbeats slowed.  He watched her as she came back to herself, the vulnerability closing behind constructed walls.

He eased his fingers out of her, settling the hand at her waist.  He felt he should apologise, that he’d overstepped some boundary but before her could find the words she was rising and pulling on her cloak.

“Stay here and rest, Templar."  So she’d inferred his training, not a terrible surprise.  Bull said he telegraphed it.  “The room is yours for the night.” She left then leaving him feeling raw and aching in her wake.


	2. Absolution's Kiss

Thom knew he shouldn’t be there, bad enough that he’d humiliated himself in front of the entire Inquisition - in front of her - his darkest secret laid bare at her feet.  But that he should come seeking, what?  Forgiveness?  Absolution?  How would the prostitute give him that if he could not give it to himself?

Still, the Masked Lady had given him succour from the swirling winds of his thoughts too many times to count.  Or rather, one of them had.  It had been clear after a few visits that the Masked Lady was not a woman but a character, played by several women.  Some knew the role better than others but he didn’t always need the most skilled lady just one with a firm hand and a willingness to push him to the edge.

He found Lancaster, the steward perched in his usual corner.  “Is she available?” he growled, hoping he wouldn’t be turned away.

If the man had heard about the performance in the main hall days earlier than he didn’t comment on it, giving only a nod before turning to the appropriate page.  “How much time, ser?”

“Two hours,” he said, dropping the appropriate amount of coin.

“Room Seven,” the man replied, not bothering to count it.

Blackwall didn’t wait, moving through to the hall and finding the right room.  He’d never been in that one before, though he’d seen the woman who used it.  It was one of three the Masked Ladies used and the one frequented by the lady he often referred to as ‘gloves’ in his mind as she alone always wore elbow length gloves.  He knocked, waiting for her summons before pushing open the door.

She was laying on her reclining couch, a book propped in her hand, her mask perched on her face.  “Hello, my lady,” he said, kneeling before her foregoing the mask as he always had.  Until that moment he had been his own mask.

She cocked her head to the side, some emotion swirling in the depths of her green eyes.  “Once I would have called you ‘Warden’,” she said the Orlesian accent not quite natural, “what shall I call you now?”

So she’d heard, or perhaps been there?  No. Unlikely, as the Inquisitor had shut out all those but the Inner Circle and her advisors.

“Thom,” he said, his own name sounding strange in his throat.

“Very well.  Rise and place your hands above your head, Thom.”  He wondered what her true voice sounded like, doubtful that any but himself and an Orlesian would be able to tell the accent was false.

“Would you like me to strip, my lady?”

“Did I ask you to undress?’ she bit out, the whip crack of her voice as harsh as if she’d struck him.  The others he’d been able to push to get what he wanted but he had the impression that would not be happening with her.  He did as commanded, raising his arms up and folding them atop his head, his lower body standing to attention.  He watched her as she crossed to him, fingers deftly opening the toggles of his tunic.

“Arms to your sides,” she commanded. He obeyed, a frown on his lips when she stepped behind him to where he could no longer look at her.  She pulled the tufted outer coat from him, leaving only the thin cotton of his shirt to cover his upper body.  He felt his nipples pebble with the sudden cold.  

He closed his eyes as her fingers tangled in his hair, yanking his head back.  He groaned at the bite of pleasure mixing with the pain.  She released him, hands pushing him this way and that like a puppet until his shirt joined his tunic on the floor.

“Come,” she demanded as she crossed the room to a bare wall save for a ring dangling from the ceiling by a rope.  “I am going to bind you,” there was something familiar about her, the longer he looked at the woman the more it drifted into his consciousness like a realization just beyond his reach, “objections?”

“No, my lady.”

He watched as she went to the nearby table picking up padded leather restraints, a length of rope and a length of silk.  He held his hands out to her as she placed the restraints around his wrists, the brush of her fingers sending frissons of desire through him.

“I am also going to blind your eyes.”  She paused, as if waiting for him to object, instead he bent at the waist giving her access.  As she reached up, a waft of her scent filled his nose, something that tickled at that same sense of familiarity but was gone, masked under an Orlesian perfume.  The silk covered his eyes and everything was dark, he felt himself relax.  Blinded thusly he was cut off from his warrior’s instinct to scan for danger.  “Your watchword?”

“Pitié.”

He felt the bindings on his wrists tug gently before the rasp and click of some mechanism, his hands drawn above his head in a fluid motion until he was stretched out, just enough give to put his weight fully on his feet.  He reached up and wrapped his fingers around the ring, feeling the roughness of the rope and the cool edge of the metal.

“Tell me what you came here for,” she said, a single tail striking down his back.  He’d never been whipped, oh he had as a soldier and the blinding sear of the leather was unmistakable, but despite his goading, the other women had never taken him so far.  Yet this one began with the more painful tool as if sensing his need for it.  Maker’s balls she was good, far better in her role than the other two had been.

“Tell me,” she said again when he did not answer, accompanied by the tip of the whip flashing pain across his shoulders.

“I-I don’t know,” he stammered out, “I just need it.”

“You may lie to yourself, Thom.  You may even lie to others...” The whip fell across his other shoulder, crossing over the first mark and doubling the pain in that spot.  He jerked, unable to hold back the grunt of pain even as released washed over him.  “In here, you will not lie.”

He was quiet for a long time, losing himself in the fall of the whip even as she goaded him over and over to tell her why he was here.  Each crack brought pain scoring across his back, layering the pain atop another until he was gasping, his back throbbing.  He felt when she switched to the flogger but it was just as merciless, its end cut to deal pain without breaking skin.

“It does not stop until you use your watchword or you answer my question.”

She struck him over and over.  The pace she set was gruelling.  Each crack coming just a little too quick to draw a good breath.  He was gasping, his teeth ground against the pain.

“Absolution,” he cried, the word coming unbidden to his mouth, “I’ve come for absolution.”

She snorted, “I am no chantry sister.”

“I need no chantry sister,” he growled, burying his face against his own arm as he sagged.  “I need the pain to cleanse my cursed soul.”

He felt the press of her face against the burning flesh of his back, her skin cool where it touched him.  She’d set the mask aside, he wondered what she looked like without it.  She was pressing herself into his flesh, holding him.  Maker, he wanted that.  If he forgot himself, he could almost imagine Evelyn hands stroking down his sides, her lips pressing the forgiveness he needed into his skin.

He was done.  It seemed they both sensed it as she slowly lowered him from his position, rubbing the muscles along his arms before undoing his cuffs.  When she gave permission to remove his blindfold he noticed her mask had returned.  Beneath it, though, her face was flushed, had she cried for him?  The thought made something twist in his gut as he reached to cup her face.  He managed to still himself before he made himself more of a fool.  Of course, she hadn’t cried for him, it was likely exertion.

“My lady,” he bowed to her before dragging on his shirt, not daring the tunic against his wounded skin.  He pulled the door closed behind him, retreating to the tavern.  At seeing him Lancaster turned to the man standing near him and said, “You may go in now, ser.”

Thom dared to look at the man as they slipped by each other. Cullen.

He quickly averted his gaze but it was no use, they had seen one another.  Whatever the Commander sought with the Masked Lady he wished him well of it, Maker knew the young man had had enough pain in his short life.

Still.  They loved the same woman and the sought out the same prostitute.  The Maker certainly had a dark sense of humour.

~

Cullen looked over the stacks of reports, wondering if he could steal away to the brothel.  Maker, he’d never thought he’d be the kind of man to spend all his coin at a house of ill repute and yet here he was considering visiting her even though he didn’t need it.

He’d gone to her a half dozen times in as many months and each time she’d left him stronger, the time between visits able to be stretched though, the last time had been odd with seeing Rainier in passing.  He felt stronger, more hale, the effects of the withdrawal lingering distantly in his mind.  What did it say about him that such depravity healed his soul?  Nothing good, he imagined.

He wished he could give her an ounce of what she’d given to him.  She hadn’t touched him since that first night, not sexually, the boundary clear.  Yet he could feel her desire... or thought he could.  Sometimes he wondered if it was his own fantasy.  He soared in her care, feeling more alive than he could ever remember but when she left him to tend to himself he always ached, wanting to draw her back and lay in her arms.  It was a liberty he wouldn’t allow himself even if she offered it, bad enough that his fantasies of her blended with his latent emotions for the Inquisitor.  Bad enough that he was besotted with a woman to whom he was nothing more than a source of income.

A knock sounded at his door.  “Enter,” he called out to whatever messenger had interrupted his thoughts.

Instead of the expected runner, it was Blackwall - Rainier - who stood in his doorway.  It wasn’t until then he realised how late it was getting, the light from outside the dark purples of dusk.

“A peace offering,” Blackwall said, holding up a bottle of something.

“Are we at war?” Cullen said, not meeting the man’s eyes as he feigned ignorance.

Rainier sighed, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him.  “I’ve come to make amends.”

That got his attention, eyes snapping to where the former Warden still stood, unsure.  “I am not the one you should be making amends to.”  Cullen knew he had no right to be offended on the Inquisitor’s behalf, whatever had lain between them cast off nearly six months before.  And yet… and yet he couldn't help but look at Blackwall and be jealous that he might have gotten the chance Cullen had not; though that was not entirely true either.  It seemed, if gossip was to be believed, that Rainier had been even less successful in courting the Inquisitor than he had which made no sense.  Just as her turning from him after a month of heady kisses and touches had made no sense.  Still, what was done was done.

“Don’t I know it,” Thom growled, “and if she’d give me the Maker-cursed time of day I would eviscerate myself at her feet to earn a chance at forgiveness.  But,” he sighed, shoulders dropping, “I have not earned even that.  Still, there are others who my deception has harmed, those who I once called friends.”

“Friends?” Cullen asked, doubtful.  They had never truly been friends.

“Colleagues, then.”

Cullen relented, waving Thom into the room.  If he was being truthful with himself it was entirely his fault they had not become close, the older man was likeable enough, and yet Cullen had avoided him because of his own jealousies.  Once, when the Inquisitor had been entirely his, they’d shared a friendly game of chess or two

Despite Rainier’s deception, he could not hate the man.  But for a few moments of kindness in his life he might have been more like Thom than he liked to think on.

“Chess?” Cullen asked, extending the olive branch.

“Yes,” he said, sinking into a chair across the desk as Cullen shuffled papers out of the way.

Cullen retrieved the board and found two glasses.  Thom poured and they spoke little during the opening gambits of the game.

“So,” Rainier ventured, “you visit the Masked Lady?”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen huffed, thankful that it wasn’t a timed game as he was entirely thrown by the comment.  He snatched up the tumbler and downed the liquid, the burn in his throat making him cough.

“I apologise.” The other man said, “It is none of my business.”

“No, that’s alright Black- I mean-”

“Thom.”

“Thom,” Cullen nodded.  “Yes, in answer to your question I do.  It helps.”  He looked down at his hand, free of tremors for the first time since he’d stopped taking the lyrium.

Rainier’s eye narrowed, noticing the flex of Cullen’s gloved hands.  “I can understand that.  Cutting the ties of addiction is no easy matter.”

The Commander’s eyes snapped to his in surprise.

Thom shrugged under the unspoken question saying, “I’m a soldier.  Known my fair share of addicts either those that chased the relief of pain or former Templars like yourself.”

Cullen nodded, he supposed it would be too much to hope that no one noticed.  It made things easier not having to explain.  “And you?  Don’t suppose it is an addiction you’re running from?”

“More like running towards,” Thom muttered, eyes preoccupied with his next move.  “It’s been so long, I can’t even tell you why I started.  I was still in Orlais exploring every kind of passion Orlais has to offer except pain.  I suppose as a soldier it never appealed.  Then Callier-  I was so, so full of guilt and chasing death at the bottom of every bottle.  Needed someone to make me hurt like my insides hurt…”

Cullen ached for the man, the soldier.  He couldn’t forgive Rainier for Callier or his deception, the wounds too fresh for that, but he could understand how a young man might fall into such a thing and spend his life running from it.  

Callier was Thom’s Kinloch Hold.

Cullen reached across the desk, clasping the man on the shoulder, offering what meagre comfort he could.  Thom’s hand covered his, clinging to the lifeline of another’s comfort and it suddenly struck Cullen how incredibly lonely the man must be.  Cullen struggled with his demons but he did so with friends behind him.  Thom had lost everyone when his lies had been revealed.

The moment passed and Cullen returned to his seat.

“I’d never,” Cullen began, feeling the need to offer something of himself to this man who’d just effectively bared his soul, “done such things for pleasure.  Before, in Kirkwall, I sought the relief from men.  It had been an escape.  With her-”

“Which one?”

“I-” Cullen stuttered, “Maker’s breath, there’s more than one?”

“Three, I think,” Blackwall said from around the rim of his glass.  They were both going to be drunk.  “There’s the Orlesian, always has perfect nails.  ‘Gloves’, she isn’t Orlesian but pretends well.  Her accent is a bit wrong.  Then the other one, she isn’t very good at it, like she doesn’t understand the point.”

“I um- ‘Gloves’ maybe?  She always wore them.”

“Lucky bastard.” Thom teased.  “She’s the best of the bunch by a league.  Never had a woman take one look at me and know what I needed.  I think I might be besotted.”  He frowned at the glass now empty in his hand for the third time.  “And drunk.”

“I know the feeling.” Cullen commiserated, pouring the last of the whiskey out between them.  “I feel like an imbecile for it.  And disloyal to Evelyn, as if such things matter any longer.”

“Cullen,” Thom sighed, reaching across the table to clasp him on the shoulder as Cullen had done for him just moments before.  

“I thought,” he confessed, “I _want_ to believe that I affected her as she did to me.  It’s a fantasy… I should not entertain such thoughts.”

“You’re only human.”

Cullen chuckled at that as Thom returned to his chair.  “Somedays… Thom?”

Rainier’s dark eyes met his.

“I was wrong before, you are my friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm currently working on two other da:i fics but this one just won't leave me be some now I'm working on three. Strap in for lots of kinky goodness mixed with all the things I love about Cullen and Blackwall. There's gonna be feels... so many feels!
> 
> For those of you wondering about safewords:  
> Arrêtez means 'stop' in French/Orlesian.  
> Pitié means 'mercy' also in French/Orlesian.  
> Cullen will get to chose his own safeword in a later chapter and we will see what he comes up with!


	3. Revelation's Heart

Evelyn was angry, an impotent rage boiling under her skin and making her feel tight like a dwarven coil.  She watched Thom Rainier - Blackwall as she once knew him - scrambled up the cliffside behind Sera before slinging her staff onto her back and following with a growl.  The stones skidded beneath her feet and she muttered to herself angrily about the cursed Storm Coast.

Rainier looked back, concern tight around his face but said nothing.

She considered, and not for the first time, dragging Thom to somewhere private and taking succor from his flesh, dragging moans of pain and pleasure until this fog of frustration broke in her.  He would give it to her, with or without confessing the role she’d been playing in his life; he would give her the moon and hang it for her if asked.

Oh, and she wanted him, wanted him with a sickness curling in her belly that bordered on madness.  That was not the problem.  The problem was that she loved Cullen and regardless of her desperation for relief, for comfort, she would not bed the Chevalier with the former templar's memory still burned on her skin.

That she spent night after night on fire craving both their touch, both their submission, was taking its toll.  Like in that moment, when she’d managed to snap at all her friends and was trudging in miserable silence through the driving rain.  She couldn’t have been more relieved when they tracked down and sealed the darkspawn tunnels and turned their mounts toward Skyhold.  She needed the mask and the whip and a relief for the violence that rode her like a demon possession.

She had barely bathed and dressed in the armour that made her The Masked Lady before one of Lancaster’s runners banged on her door, gasping, “The Templar.”

She felt a surge of relief knowing he had come.  

Her desires concerning the Templar were… well concerning.  

That she eagerly awaited his visits would be an understatement.  But she worried over the growing warmth in her chest when she heard his honorific.  It was too easy to pretend it was Cullen behind that mask- which was wishful thinking of the highest order.  

She could have encouraged him to reveal himself, could have asked to see the man who came undone under her floggers like a flower opening to the sun.  Truth was, she didn’t want to know because she needed to pretend it was the other man she loved… the one she walked away from for his own good.

She waited for the man, her back to the door while he stripped in silence and donned his mask and hood.

“My Queen,” he said, standing at attention as if he was a soldier waiting for inspection rather than a man bare-arsed as the day he was born.

“Templar,” she growled, remembering her false accent a moment too late.  If he noticed, he did not say.

“How would you have me?” his voice was muffled behind the immobile silver face but she could hear the demanding edge to it, the desperate growl.  He came to her like this, sometimes.  Shaking with a need that she could pretend was another’s lyrium addiction, she could give him the benediction he craved and pretend it was Cullen she was healing.

Inside me, she did not say.  She had not, would not bed any man under such pretences let alone one who’s face she had not seen.  That she’d been weak enough the first time he visited, his rough Ferelden accent reminding her broken heart of her Commander, was something she regretted and would not allow again.

She went to him, standing close in the heat of his body as if they were lovers about to dance.

“My Queen?” he asked.  He was clearly disturbed by her prolonged silence, and yet she did not have it in her to soothe him.  Her own soul was in tatters, the comfort she’d taken from this man becoming sharp edged, honed against the desires she denied herself.  “Is something wrong?”

He did not touch her but she knew he wanted to, all that control coiling in his body and keeping a leash on himself until the only outward sign was the frustrated clasping and unclasping of his hands.  His nails were ragged, bitten low.  

“What is it you desire from me?” she asked softly, firmly.

The relief at hearing her voice was so palpable that it rushed off him in a wave, buffeting her.  “You, just you.”

He was a fool.  She could hear the tenderness in his voice, the affection, the need.  That man... that templar was falling for a woman behind a mask… a woman whose heart already belonged to not only one but two others.

She should end it.

But, she was more the fool for she could not.  

How long until he demanded something from her she could not give and all that softness turned hard with despair?  She’d seen it in her Commander, though if she were honest sometimes he seemed as if he were healing.  She wasn’t sure if she was happy for him or sad for herself that he didn’t pine for her even as her heart still whispered his name with every pulse.

The man before her made a frustrated noise in his throat, no doubt expecting the lash from her by now.

“May I touch you?” he asked the sound hard edged and aching.

She couldn’t stop herself despite knowing it was a terrible idea.  “Yes,” she whispered.

To her surprise, he didn’t bare her breasts or grab her backside.  He hugged her. If not for his state of undress she would have characterised it as entirely chaste; and she melted into it like a woman starved. 

Evelyn tucked her head under his chin and pretended that he smelled of leather not because he was a soldier but because he was _her soldier._

His hands circled her back, rubbing soothing circles over the cloth, rough fingers trailing gently as if she might break.  She felt as if she might break as she reached out and pressed her palms over the erratic beating of his heart.

She wanted to tilt her head up, to peel away the mask and kiss the mouth beneath.  If she closed her eyes perhaps she would not miss the scar.  Instead, Evelyn stepped away sighing, and he did not move to chase her.

Giving him her back she trailed her fingers over the instruments displayed before her, caressing them fondly.  She could think of a thousand things she wanted to do to that man but they all involved fucking her despair into him and pretending he was someone he was not.

She went to pick up a flogger only to feel his warmth at her back.

His hand brushed her bare shoulder and when she did not deny him he stepped closer, slotting his front to her back.  It was then she felt the brush of his lips branding the flesh his hand had just touched.  She gasped at the touch arching into it even as her stomach twisted.

She didn’t want to farce to end, needing it more than ever when she felt so raw she was likely to fall apart.  “Don’t do this,” she murmured.

Perhaps he did not hear her or did not understand.  He wrapped his arms around her more tightly and she couldn’t help but reach behind and bury her hands in his hair, tugging at the curls that felt so familiar she nearly sobbed.

“My Queen,” he murmured against the column of her throat, mouth searing, “tell me what is wrong and I will fix it.  If it is within my power I will-”

He sounded so much like Cullen without the metal between his mouth and her ear, smelled like him, felt-  The room swam dizzily the anxiety in her stomach flaring hot into her chest, up her throat.

He held her as her knees went out from under her. 

“Please,” she cried, all pretence at her false accent forgotten, “please…”  She didn’t know whether she cried for him to be Cullen or for him to be someone else.  Confusion, fear, hope and despair swirled in her gut.

Tears were falling, swelling and wetting her face behind her silver mask.  Distantly she realized she was shaking and he was soothing her, petting her bound hair.

She drew away into herself, weak as a foal.  Evelyn clawed her way along the walls to steady her as she made for the door.  She couldn’t look back, she wouldn’t.  Except when her hand clasped the door she heard the anguish break loose from his throat and she couldn’t help but look at the man she’d broken.

There in the middle of her borrowed salon was Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford, naked as the day the Maker created him and she, coward, fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because this is a short chapter I'm posting two!


	4. Confession's Ardor

It had been nearly a week since the Masked Lady fled his presence like her clothes were on fire, a debacle if he’d ever seen one.  The woman he wanted, the woman he needed, was gone from the Golden Chalice.  Whomever she was he would likely never know.  And what happened between them?  Another mystery he would never have the answer to.  

Thom spent more nights than not in his company, drinking, playing chess, reminding him to eat.  Her absence seemed to hit him hard as well though he spoke little of it. She changed them both in ways Cullen was only beginning to feel and left them hollow in her absence.  She owed them nothing and yet…

And yet, what?

She was not his lover.  Not his friend.  Just a masked woman to whom he’d deluded himself into believing something was there.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Thom asked, drawing a card from the deck.  The chevalier had convince him to try his hand at Wicked Grace this night.

Cullen sighed.  There was no point in pretense with Thom, the weeks of companionship had turned the man into his closest friend.  For the first time in his life he was able to speak openly about himself and he reveled in it.  “I miss her.”

Thom nodded, his eyes far away, no doubt remembering her in his own way.

A knock sounded at the door, startling them both for it was far too late for messengers unless there was an emergency.

“Come.” Cullen ordered, already standing and Thom following suit.

“Sers,” the woman said giving a little curtsey.  It was the elven woman who sometimes tended to the Inquisitor.  “A message, my lords.”  She held out her hands, a note to each of them.

Cullen took his, dismissing her with a nod as he pried open the scrap of parchment. His eyes scanned the words, unable to grasp their meaning at first read.  He did so again, and then a third time before glancing up to Thom who looked as shaken as he.

“Is this some kind of joke?” the chevalier asked to no one in particular.

Cullen made a desperate noise in the back of his throat.

Thom continued, “Does yours say the same?  That Evelyn is the Masked Lady and that… that she cares for us?”

Cullen nodded, finally finding his voice, “Clearly she didn’t think we’d read these tonight.  She leaves in the morning.”

“Cullen,” Thom said, clasping his shoulder, “I have to go to her… I have- Come with me?”

Cullen nodded, nearly following Thom at the door before he grabbed the other man, “Wait!  She asks us… asks if we might see a future with both of us in her life?  Can we? I mean… Do- do we?”

“Maker’s mercy,” Thom growled, beginning to pace, “I could.  I mean, you’re clearly the better man, more deserving.  If you can’t-  I’ll step aside.”

“I don’t think she wants that.”  Cullen muttered.  “I don’t think I want that.”

Thom’s eyes came to his, needy and desperate.  “Are you sure?”

“Maker’s breath, no.  But I want to try.  If I don’t, I’ll regret it.”

Decision made, however tentative they moved together through the keep, most people already abed.  Reaching her door, Thom knocked firmly while Cullen watched their backs out of habit, his nervous agitation making him rely on his Templar training all the more.

“Enter,” Evelyn called from within.

Cullen went in first, Thom holding open the heavy door.  His eyes adjusted to the flare of firelight, brighter than in the corridor.  They reached the top of the stairs nearly at the same time.  

The Inquisitor stood near the fireplace the silhouette of her body visible through the cotton as the firelight danced behind her.  She turned and seeing them both, paled.  She’d been crying and clearly had not expected them.

“My lady,” Thom said as they stood in the middle of her chambers.

“Thom.  Cullen.” she croaked.

It was a surprise to everyone but perhaps most of all to Cullen himself that he was the first to break.  He strode across the room and lifted her into his arms, lips tangling with hers in a kiss that stole both their breaths.  It wasn’t until he felt the sob break from her chest that he pulled back, nuzzling at her cheek.

“Tell me,” she gasped against his lips, “that this is not a dream.”

“Not a dream, my lady,” Thom said, still frozen in place.

“You read the letters?’ she asked the chevalier as she pressed her face into the fur ruff of the Commander’s overcoat.

“Yes.” Thom answered.

“Cullen?” she looked at him, eyes watery and full of hope.

“I don’t know what the future holds.  But I would face it by your side.”

“As would I.” Thom growled.

“You-” she looked between them both, “You are alright with this?”

They both nodded.  Still in Cullen’s arms she reached out for Thom and he came, holding her from behind even as the Commander refused to let go.

Her smiled as she leaned back into Thom’s embrace was radiant, warm as the sunrise and more beautiful than the Bride of the Maker.  Cullen shifted her in his arms, freeing one hand to reach up and brush a lock of hair that clung to her tear-stained face; cursing himself when it shook.

“Cullen,” she breathed, grasping the leather, “has it been so bad?”  She pulled the glove free and pressed kisses into his cold fingertips before clinging to it as if it were her lifeline in a storm.

“It will pass.” he soothed, finally brushing away the lock of hair and cupping her face.

“I’m such a fool,” she sighed, “I should have been braver.  I should have told you both.  The time I’ve wasted…”

“Shh,” Thom whispered, rubbing circles along her back and sides.  “What’s done is done.  You haven’t lost us.”

“I need-”

“Tell us what you need, my lady.” 

“Thom,” she ordered, sitting up and seemingly finding herself, “undress.”

The chevalier drew a pleasured breath at her command.  He stripped quickly, efficiently until he was naked next to them.  Evelyn didn’t even look to see if he obeyed, her eyes locked with Cullen’s.

“Put me down,” she told her Commander, stripping off her nightgown when her feet were beneath her.  She took Thom’s hand, a spike of need shooting through him as he watched her drag the other man to her bed.  Cullen watched her without turning, letting her have control.

“Remove your clothes, Cullen, then join us.”

~

Evelyn pulled Thom behind her to the bed, shooting a look to where Cullen was following, trailing clothes and armor in his wake.  She twisted, putting the dark-haired man between her and the bed before shoving him at the shoulders sending him sprawling across the coverlet.

Her body sang - fear and grief turning suddenly, mercifully to arousal and need.  A need that cloyed at her from within.  She crawled up the length of him, the power of the control he offered up to her racing heady through her veins.  She was throbbing, her sex pulsing with the thrumming of her heart sending ripples out through her abdominal muscles. 

“Fuck,” Rainier grunted as she cornered him against the headboard, straddling his hips.  

She grinned as his pelvis canted upward, searching for contact.  Trailing kisses through the thatch of chest hair, Evelyn ran her fingers along his skin and let the curls drag along her lips and hands.

“My lady,” he gasped, hands ghosting over her hips as if he was unsure of his welcome.

“Thom,” she growled, pressing the words into the flesh of his neck as she nipped there, “do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?  Our sessions?  I would come back here after, aching and needy and touch myself thinking of this… Maker," she breathed, trembling as need flooded through her.

He trembled too as he reached out for her.  She stopped him, gathering his hands in hers.

"Taste me," she demanded.

He gave her a saucy grin - half confidence and half wrecked with desire - before sliding down the bed.  She turned around, facing her Commander as she straddled Thom's head, his breath ghosting against her thighs.  Her hand found his dark locks and buried there, guiding his mouth to her cunt.

She heard Cullen whimper - a broken shattered sound - and she dragged her eyes to him.  He stood at the foot of the bed, naked but covering himself with his hands as if she hadn't seen him before.  His eyes were blown with lust where they settled on her yet he was tense... nervous.

She reached for him, and he came, straddling Rainier’s torso as if the man was more furniture than lover as he melded against her.  Cullen's lips were gentle, tentative against hers as one hand found the small of her back and the other cupped her head gently; cradling her like something precious.

Not to be forgotten, Thom nipped at her thighs earning a sigh of pleasure before he opened her with his thumbs, hands curling around her thighs roughly.  His mouth was hot, urgent where it burned against her sex, tasting her arousal.  A cry burst out of her and into the Commander’s mouth, gasping with the low roll of pleasure in her belly.

Cullen’s sword-rough hands slid down her backside, drawing them close in a press of bodies.  His cock - red and aching for her - trapped between them, hot as a brand.  She pulled back, looking at her prize.  It was long and slender, flesh dark and leaving a smeared trail of fluid as it wept for her.  She could not help but reach out, fingers exploring, grasping, sliding a hand along its length and earning her a broken groan.

Between her legs Thom drank from her like he was a dying man but plied her with skill, gentle and attentive as he supped from her. She clung to Cullen as Thom slid his fingers into the warmth of her channel, sucking a mark into her thigh before burying his face once more.  She was desperate, pained and needy as her hips snapped against the ridges of his face, demanding her release.

“Don’t stop.” she hissed, as Cullen held her, her forehead pressed to his chest.

Thom swirled his tongue over her nub, crooking his fingers to graze over the bundle of nerves within her until her thighs began to quake.  She reached her hand down between her and Cullen’s bodies, curling her nails into the skin of Thom’s chest; the pain only seemed to encourage him as he clung to her with a wild abandon.  She cried out her release, kept upright only by Cullen’s arms around her waist as her knees went weak.  

Thom eased her through it with gentle attentions before wriggling out from beneath them, leaning against the headboard.  Her Commander laid her down in the other man’s arms and she went happily, her arms shaking in the aftermath of her pleasure.

“Cullen,” she mewled, reaching for him even as her weak limbs protested.  She fought the fatigue as she dragged him down to settle his hips between her legs. 

“I’m here,” he said, brushing soft kisses over her face and neck.

This man… her men finally with her. Joy swelled her chest full to bursting as she smoothed back his golden locks, leaning into the warmth and strength of Thom at her back.

"Thom," she breathed, turning her head to feel the ghost of his breath on her skin only to have him press gentle benedictions across her cheek.

Thom… he was her sword, battered by his life but no less deadly. She loved his toughness, the hard edges of his passion making him fearsome to control and sometimes she didn’t want to. She wondered what it would be like to push him to the edge and let him slip the leash like a blood crazed mabari. 

She groaned at the thought, Cullen spreading soothing kisses over her breasts as Thom hands slipped lower to stroke her dampened cunt. His fingers gentle as they spread her apart.

Cullen… so gentle, so submissive. She’d seen it in her sessions and could see it here, now. There was no edges to him. He was her shield, gladly throwing himself between her and the pain of the world. He would give her more than he was willing. He would turn her into his new addiction if she let him, making her desires monstrous. She could unman him, destroy him as easily as fix him and it… frightened her.

Yet she would change nothing.

The power these two men gave her was a sacred gift. She could no more harm them with it than tear out her own soul.

“My Queen,” Cullen’s voice whispered across her lips, his hips hitching eagerly against her. “I need you.”

She reached between them, taking him in hand and guiding him towards the center of her. The sound he made as he sank into her warmth, filling her with his delicious length, was everything - filled with the long desperation of their fumbling courtship and the relief of finally... finally. Thom’s rough hands grasped her thighs, spreading her for the Commander as Cullen braced himself on his knuckles, smiling shyly down at her. 

Her heart in her chest felt ready to burst.  She had given them her heart long ago and they didn't even know it.  The thought brought a sob to her, half joy and half anguish.

“Cullen,” she breathed, arching into the slide of his cock, turning her head to capture Thom’s lips.  The moment felt vast, even with their three hearts beating in tandem they could not encompass it all.  And yet much remained unspoken.

Thom took his emotions and burned them into her lips, plundering her mouth with his tongue as he released one of her thighs to bury his hand in her curly red hair.  Each slide of Cullen, each stroke of Thom’s mouth earned the men mewls of pleasure which the chevalier drank until they broke apart gasping, their foreheads touching.

She was lost in the madness of her own desires, letting these men take from her body what she had so long denied them and herself.  A keen of pleasure tore loose from her throat as Cullen lifted her free leg over his shoulder, changing the angle from good to perfect as the blunt head of his cock grazed the sensitive spot inside her making stars burst behind her eyes.  

Her belly fluttered desperately as he took her, hips hitching with his own need, now stuttering on a knife-edged.  A hunger inside her she could not name built until it broke with growl.

“Shh,” Thom soothed, caressing her neck and holding her gaze as another breathy sound tore from her.

She writhed with it as his pace quickened.  “Please, please.” she begged.  Her moans of pleasure were mingling with his grunts and Thom’s hitched breaths until it was something like music.

“Evelyn,” Cullen sighed, his voice wrecked as he held her against the flood of his own needs, “My Queen, may I?  I won’t until-”

The power he gave her, the control her offered to her sent her spiraling higher.  She barely managed to say, “Come inside me.” before her own release was slamming through her, her screams of pleasure echoing off the walls before Thom muffled it with his mouth.  Cullen was right behind her, her orgasm barely lulling before he was spilling within, crying her name into the skin of her shoulder.

He collapsed, heavy in her arms and breathless in the aftermath of their pleasure.  It wasn’t until he felt the insistent press of Thom’s cock against her back that she guided Cullen off of her to curl at her side.  

Thom was-  ‘affected’ would be too small a word for what Thom was.  Ardent? Yes.  Emotional? Probably.  Shattered?  Most definitely.

She rolled up, facing him on all fours and he pounced - a suddenly freed animal - taking her down until they rolled hard off the bed.  They wrestled, fighting for dominance but he was honorable where she fought dirty.  He had her rolled beneath him, about to declare victory when she leaned over and bit him in the shoulder.

Surprised, he released her and she scrambled to get away only to be caught at the end of the bed and pinned against its sheets.  Thom was inside her then - rough and fast - releasing one hand long enough to guide himself deep into her warmth and earning a long scratch over his shoulder for daring.

She cried out as he fucked into her, desperate and hard slamming her against the mattress with a wild abandon that had her orgasming with a rough cry.  He released her wrists only to dig one hand into a hip and bury the other in her hair; her back bowed just this side of too painful but giving him a delicious angle.

“That’s right my lady, just like this… take it all.” he murmured rough and filthy as he quickened his impossible pace.

He released her hair only to circle her neck gently, pulling her back against his body as he rocked into her.  Her eyes flashed up to find Cullen there.  He smiled, raw and vulnerable as he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips so at odds with Thom’s rough grasp.

The world shattered, she felt herself break apart in their arms and welcomed it, knowing she was safe.  Somewhere, back where she left her body, she felt the curl of a Templar’s ability suppressing her magic but she’d left that behind as the darkness of her mind swallowed her.


	5. Desperation's Mercy

When Cullen and Blackwall awoke there was a cold, empty space between them.  The Commander was surprised to find there was little in the way of awkwardness as they dressed and set her chambers to rights.  

There were, of course, servants for such things but they were hers finally and Cullen, at least, found some solace in preparing for her return even knowing it would not be for some time.

“Are you alright?” Blackwall finally spoke, clasping his shoulder where they stood at the top of the steps before they left her room.

Cullen nodded.  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh,” Thom joked, “I don’t know.  Sharing your woman with another man might give some pause.”

He blushed, unable to stop it, but smiled at the memory.  “Have you?”

Blackwall shrugged.  “I spent a lot of time in Orlais,” the Chevalier said as if that explained it.  Perhaps it did.

“I am not bothered.”

“Good… that’s - may I kiss you, Cullen?”

He took a long step away, regarding the shorter man.  He wasn’t against the idea entirely. Cullen was a soldier, after all, and had occasionally chased release in the arms of a convenient man.  He preferred women. Loved women. He didn’t feel the same affection for men but… 

Thom was holding his hands up, palm out in a placating gesture.  “I didn’t mean to offend.”

“I’m not… offended that is.  Surprised, perhaps. I thought your tastes more singular.”

Thom chuckled, the sound relaxing some of the tension between them.  “I love women. But I fuck both. Sometimes I have cared for a man when there was the bond of a woman between us.”

Cullen nodded understanding and stepped closer, closing the distance between them.  “I love her. You know that?”

“I do.”

“And you love her too.”  It wasn’t a question.

Blackwall nodded anyways.

“I - I care for you as well, Thom.  As friends… mostly but - “ Cullen settled his gloved hands over Thom’s gambeson, splaying the fingers wide.

“I know,” Thom murmured, leaning close enough that his breath ghosted over Cullen’s cheek earning another blush.  “I feel… What I feel for you is complicated.”

“Complicated,” Cullen agreed, “yes.”

“If it weren’t for Evelyn I think we would only be friends but… this?” Thom captured his trembling fingers, sliding a glove free to warm them between his sword calloused ones.  “It might be something more.”

“It might,” Cullen croaked, managing a crooked smile.

“May I kiss you, Commander?”

He didn’t speak, couldn’t but nodded despite the clench of emotions in his throat.

Kissing a man was… strange.  All his tumbles with men had been rough fucks or the kiss of a lash.  He’d never had a man’s lips on his own.

Blackwall’s mouth was hard against his, insistent and demanding in a way that reminded him viscerally of Evelyn but without the temper of her softness.  Or, perhaps it was the illusion of softness because, truly, there was a deeply cruel streak in his Queen.

Thom nipped at his lip, tugging Cullen’s curls and he moaned.  The older man pressed the advantage and plundered his mouth, tongue licking into his depths.

He found he liked it, after a fashion.

He liked it better when Thom mouthed down his jaw in rough little bites that made his knees tremble.  

“Stop,” Cullen gasped.  “Stop.”

Thom pulled back, eyes heated as they scanned his face.

Cullen blushed as he confessed, “I liked it.”

Thom’s smile was nothing shy of radiant, teeth flashing white against the dark hair of his beard.  “Then why did I stop?”

“Because,” Cullen pulled the mask of the Commander around him, “I have -  _ we _ have duties with which to attend and because… more importantly… I would have her permission.”

“Do you think she’d deny us?”

He shrugged.  “No. Truthfully, no.  But I still want it.”

Thom clasped his neck, pulling him close until their foreheads touched, noses bumping together.  “Alright. I’d like to see you tonight, to be near you… without her…”

Cullen hummed happily.  “Yes. I’d like that.”

~

Evelyn was happy to be returning to Skyhold despite the winter’s chill that seeped through her light mage’s robes.  She wished she had the words to apologise to her companions. Her behaviour over the long month in the Emerald Graves had been nothing short of monstrous, snappish and mean.  How could she explain that each moment spent apart from them felt like daggers in her guts? Poison in her soul?

She couldn’t even bring herself to answer their letters.  Words had failed her. Sleep eluded her. Food tasted of ashes.

Even Varric had been unable to lift her spirits, eventually, he stopped trying.

She knew what it was but it was a sickness no healer could tend.  Sometimes when she played with the Templar - with Cullen - afterwards she would crave his submission and it would make her ill with the desire for control once more.  Apart from both her lovers after getting them so soon…? It was like those moments but a hundredfold, the fever for their touch, for their submission stretched over her and seeping into her very soul making her normal good humour something dark and stormy.

Maker’s sainted arse she needed them.  Needed them more than breath.

As she crested the side of the mountain, everyone in agreement to push on rather than making camp, it was late in the night well past the midnight hour and yet golden light poured from the windows on her Commander’s tower.  A quick glance showed the stables wreathed in shadows so, after giving the reins of her horse to a page, she bid a hasty farewell and climbed the steps.

It was Thom’s voice, seeping through the open windows that reached her ears first.  “...doesn’t answer save to say she is well.”

“I don’t know, Thom,” Cullen’s voice said from much closer, perhaps he was leaning on the wall near the doorway?  “I hope - that is…  _ Maker’s breath _ let her not have changed her mind.”  There was such pain in his voice it made Evelyn’s guts ache.  She had not thought… Maker, but she’d failed them. Had been unable to think of anything beyond the dark swirl of her own pain.

“Come here,” Thom commanded the Commander.  “It’s alright, Cullen. Breathe for me, love.”

_ Love. _  When had  _ that  _ happened?

“We can’t,” Cullen pleaded, “not until she comes back…”

“I know.  But, let me comfort you.  Andraste’s tits,” the Chevalier hissed, “your hands are cold.  Has it been bad?”

Cullen didn’t answer, or perhaps the answer wasn’t out loud.

“I miss her,” Cullen sighed.

Well, that was as good of a sign from the Maker as she was likely to get…

They both startled at the sound of the creaking door, Cullen jumping from Thom’s lap only for his eyes to land on her.  He lunged but stopped before he reached her frozen as she leaned her exhausted body in the doorway.

“My lady?” Thom croaked, eyes dark as coals in the light of the single lamp.

“I’ve missed you too,” she managed, eyes fluttering shut as a wave of dizziness broke over her.  Too long without food or sleep. “I just couldn’t find any words that - “  _ would not worry you. _

“It’s alright,” Cullen soothed, closing the distance and pulling her into his arms.  She was grateful he had foregone the armour and it was the warmth of his flesh barely covered by his linen shirt that she was pressed against.

“It’s not,” she denied even as Thom wrapped them both in his arms.  “I need to take care of you. I think… I think I made it worse by not trying… for all of us.”

“Made what worse, my lady?” Thom asked as he nuzzled against her cheek.

“I’ve been…” she sighed in frustration.  It seemed words failed her when she was with them, just as much.  “Unwell,” she managed, finally.

Cullen made a choked, pained sound.

“You feel thin,” Thom growled.

“So the field medics tell me.”

Another aborted sound from Cullen’s throat.

“Shhh,” she soothed him, stroking her palms over his biceps, “I’m ok.  I’m here.”

“I need - “ Cullen began before his voice swallowed the sounds.

“What do you need,  _ d’elgara _ ?”

His next words came out on an exhale as if he had to push them from his body, “to take care of you.”

She nodded, “I’d like that.”

He scooped her up into his arms, holding her close to his chest as Thom extinguished the candle and they were suddenly back out in the cold night.  She laid her head on his shoulder, not bothering to look up as they took the long way to her chambers, likely to avoid the few prying eyes that would be about at the late hour.

She must have been more tired than she thought because the night passed in snatches.  Thom kneeling to start the fire while Cullen held her in his lap. Their strong hands peeling her armour from her and setting it on the stand.  The cold of the sheets as she slipped inside and Thom’s warm body suddenly holding her, spreading chaste kisses over her face.

Then there was wine being pressed to her slips, Cullen’s lowborn accent rougher with emotion as he encouraged her to drink.  Bits of food - fruit and cheeses - were pressed to her lips until she was too tired to even chew and swallow and she turned her face away into the crook of Thom’s chest.

“Stay,” she whimpered as their warmth moved away, “hold me.”

Did she imagine it, or did her men sigh in contentment as they wrapped themselves around her?  She tried to catch that thought even as sleep dragged her under.

~

Thom woke up to the sharp prick of teeth sinking into his collarbone as he gasped his way through an orgasm.  Evelyn’s hand was wrapped around his cock, fisting his length as he covered it in his seed.

“Maker’s balls,” he grunted, clinging to her waist as he buried his face in the cotton of her nightshirt.

Was Cullen… giggling?

“Well,” he sighed as he flopped onto his back, “that’s one way to get me up.”

Evelyn rolled, straddling his thighs and pinning him down as she held up her semen covered hand.  “You’ve made a mess, Thom,” she teased.

“Apologies, my lady,” he managed as he threw an arm across his forehead to shade his eyes from the late morning light.

“I think you need to clean me up,” she purred, pressing her fingers to his lips.

He opened his mouth automatically, sucking the bitter fluid from her skin.

“My Queen,” Cullen sighed, “may I help?”

The words were like a punch to his stomach, arousal flooding him as his cock tried to stir.

“Oh yes,” she said, voice warm with desire, “I think you should.”

Cullen’s breath, hot as it ghosted across his lips and then the sinful press of a tongue as it curled over and around her fingers to dance with Thom’s.

“Cullen,” Thom groaned, easing himself up as Evelyn tugged her hand away.

“The Commander,” Evelyn murmured in his ear, “has been telling me  _ delicious _ fantasies.  I confess I’ve always wanted to see him take you cock as much as I’ve wanted to fuck him with mine.”

“Y-your cock?” Cullen stammered.

The wicked grin she shot the former Templar sent arousal skittering through them both.

“Oh, my boys,” she sighed.  “Wait here.”


End file.
